


Une Valse A Quatre Temps

by Sweety_Mutant



Category: The Great Escape (1963)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Honestly I loved this line and scene so much I had to write something, Litteraly this is inspired by a scene and a line of JoJo Rabbit so I guess SPOILERish ALERT, M/M, POV Third Person Limited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:20:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23470834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sweety_Mutant/pseuds/Sweety_Mutant
Summary: "Dancing is for people who are free. It’s an escape from all this." -Rosie Betzler inJojo Rabbit(2020, Taika Waititi)
Relationships: Willie Dickes/Danny Velinski
Comments: 7
Kudos: 17





	Une Valse A Quatre Temps

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ThegoodshipRickyl (Transom)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Transom/gifts).



> **Insert your usual disclaimer here** Enjoy reading!

_It starts with one of Danny’s rare smiles, those he usually addresses to Willy only when they are alone. A smile that makes the world around them blurry. A tilt of the shoulder then, and Danny’s piercing eyes are on him, and Willie feels his mouth go dry. Dance. The memories come back in waves. Willie tilts his shoulder to mirror Danny’s move. What’s the first thing you’ll do when you’re free?_

It had been Sedgwick’s idea. And while that did not mean it was a bad idea, it did not mean it was a good idea either. 

Well, Willie would not complain too much. They were right in the middle of a team shift when the stooges alerted that Ferrets were on their way to the hut. It was a surprise hut inspection, Strawitz was probably in a bad mood. The members of the current digging team were stuck in the tunnel, and although they could do with spending a few minutes cramped up in the first meters of the tunnel, everyone’s stress level had gone through the roof. Those under, who had to stay silent at all costs. Those in the room ―the five of them plus Sedgwick because he wanted to verify the air pumps― had to find an excuse why they were in a four person room in the middle of a warm and sunny afternoon of September. 

It was a dangerous situation, and disaster had been avoided only thanks to the stooges’ vigilance. They had had two minutes to get ready, so when Sedgwick had taken the battered cards out of his back pocket, they had all sat down and listened. It was some kind of upgraded betting game, but, according to Sedgwick, the one who won the fold had to ask a question and everyone else answered else they were disqualified. It was a stupid rule, thought Willie at first. It made no sense. No sense at all, a mashup of rules from other games. But Sedgwick possessed an uncanny ability to make the stupidest shit up at the worst moment, and the luck to make it work. It was brilliant. Because Ferrets were curious, it was part of the job, to nose around. But with enough distraction, and the right amount of laughter and shouting, it would focus said curiosity on the players, and not on the potential cough coming from the concealed trap. Not on the little bits of fresh dark dirt they had had no time to hide. A brilliant idea indeed, if the Ferrets did not kick them out of the room. 

They were lucky that day, thought Willie as he was handed a few cards. The Ferret who picked their room was no one else than Werner, who was both curious for two and not the smartest cookie in the camp. The two other Ferrets disappeared in adjacent rooms. Indecent luck. Werner did not kick them out, trying to ignore them as he started to look around the room, barely glancing at the dramatic gestures the Trapfuehrer ―Sam, same age as Willie and half as tall― was making as he ‘won’ the first fold.

“Okay, so, question, what’s the first thing you’ll do when you’re free and back home?” Sam said, his voice too loud on purpose.

“Get bloody drunk,” Sedgwick answered, hitting his fist on the table. “I’ll go on the beach and get wasted with the most expensive booze I can buy.” 

Everyone around the table laughed, it was not too difficult to imagine Sedgwick dead drunk on a beach, although Willie had no idea what the beaches of Australia looked like. It did not matter, all the beaches of the world looked the same when you had been behind barbed wire for too long.

“Your turn now Lambert!” Sam shouted, and Willie noticed from the corner of his eyes that Werner was now looking at them. It was working.

“Me,” answered the Belgian Flying Officer with his thick accent, “I’m gonna propose to my girl, I should have done it before leaving. What’s the first thing you’ll do when you’re free Danny?”

Danny looked at his cards as if they held the answer to existence.

“Dance.”

“I did not know you could dance Danny!” 

“I don’t. But dance is good to celebrate.”

“Hey don’t worry mate!” Sedgwick shouted, “Willie’ll teach you! Won’t you Willie?”

Willie blushed furiously, and once again the whole table erupted into fits of laughter. Werner glanced at them, mildly annoyed, and walked to the other end of the room, his shoes scattering the incriminating bits of dirt into the floorboards. Yes, thought Willie as he regained his composure, sometimes, Sedgwick’s ideas were not that bad. 

“Hey, Willie, it’s your turn,” Sam said, snapping his fingers in front of Willie’s face.

“The first thing I’ll do when I am free and back home…” He had no idea what to answer. Quick, he had to think about something. “I’ll teach Danny how to dance.” 

As soon as the words left his mouth Willie realised how stupid this was. The others around him were cheering, but his mood had sunk. He knew the first thing he would do would not be teach Danny how to dance. It would be nothing. He would not believe he is back home. He would not be able to stomach the food, would not be able to enjoy a hot bath. He would not find sleep without the noise and smell of the hut, without the comforting presence of his friends around him. Without Danny-- Without Danny, it would not be like going home. 

No he would do nothing. He would have nightmares of being crushed under tons of sand and he would not be able to close the windows of his room. 

But for an instant, for the sake of a game, of a distraction, it was okay to say stupid things and to imagine. It was nice to imagine. Dancing with Danny. Why had he not thought about that before? Dancing… he would discover under a new light a body he had come to know by heart. Just the two of them, in a hotel room or by a lake, Danny’s body against his, the gentle sway of their hips, following the slow rhythm of the music.

  
  


_Danny’s foot taps lightly against the pavement, his body swaying to the makeshift rhythm. His arms hang awkwardly at his sides, but it’s one of the most beautiful sight Willie has ever seen. Celebrate._

_Willie snaps his fingers then, and perhaps he’s not in tune with the rhythm, and perhaps no one cares. Danny soon joins him, lifting his arms. It’s a game of mirrors, it’s improvised. They do not know how to dance properly, but it doesn’t matter. They are getting closer to each other, almost touching. Almost._

  
  


With working in the tunnels came closeness. Forced closeness at first, but in Willie and Danny’s case, they had come to yearn for it. Closeness meant safety. They were never as close as when they were digging. They had each other, and that was as safe as they would get. It was almost blasphemous to consider the tunnels safe. It was an insult to the sand above their heads, but Willie could not help it, he was irreverent, and would not change for anything in the world. It helped staying alive, masquerading the fear with a false sense of safety, and they needed all the help they could get. 

Danny passed him yet another bucket full of sand and dirt, breaking his musings. Although they had to be quick, keep the rhythm, Danny’s fingers brushed against Willie, and for a too long instant, time stopped. Willie smiled, trying his best to look comforting, he would do anything to get rid of the shadow that settled in Danny’s beautiful green eyes each time they were underground.

“Everything okay?” Willie mouthed, still smiling. Danny frowned before nodding, trying his best to plaster a lopsided smile on his face. 

Willie passed the bucket down the line, and the man behind him whispered a snarky comment about how Danny and him should stop flirting and work faster. Willie stifled a chuckle and tried to look offended. He might have been flirting, but it was dangerous, because their fellow PoWs may joke about this, but you never knew how the goons would react if they realised it was more than fun and jokes. There were rumours about what happened to homosexuals who were caught by the Nazis. Besides, Danny was Polish, so they would only be too glad to get rid of him. Willie knew that very well. This privilege he had by being British, a semblance of safety, and the risks Danny took. 

These risks he took every day, climbing down the ladder and into the tunnel. 

There had been no cave-in that day, a lucky day, but that did not mean much. There were good days, there were bad days, and yet good or bad they always ended up with dirt under their nails and in their hair. Nothing took the smell and taste of the dirt away, it had marked them for ages yet to come.

That night, Willie woke up, breath short, a weight on his chest and too many memories of the nightmare that had plagued him a few seconds ago. Dirt. Sand. Death. He sat up in his bunk and wiped the cold sweat from his forehead. He had the feeling he would not fall asleep anytime soon, and he tiptoed down the ladder and to the hut’s washroom to drink and to splash some cold water on his face. 

Danny was sitting on his own bunk when Willie came back, awake. 

“You had a bad dream?” he asked, voice low so as not to wake up the others.

“Sorry, didn’t meant to wake you up. I’m okay now,” Willie answered, patting Danny’s shoulder. Yet, instead of climbing on his bunk, Willie stayed there, enjoying the warmth of Danny’s skin under his hand. Danny took Willie’s hand from his shoulder and squeezed it.

“I have trouble sleeping too.”

Slowly, Danny pulled him down towards him, and Willie did not even want to resist. They laid awkwardly on Danny’s bunk, it was already barely big enough to be comfortable for a grown man, so two… but Willie did not mind. Closeness, safety, his head resting against Danny’s chest, Danny’s arm around his shoulders. Listening to his breathing, feeling the slow rise and fall of his chest. Willie did not realise at once that Danny had started singing. It was more a whisper than a song, and Willie did not understand the lyrics, but it was soothing. He would ask Danny the meaning of it later, if he remembered.

Willie fell asleep sooner than he had intended to, lulled by the tune, all memory of the nightmare forgotten. 

  
  


_Tunes sung in the camp come back to Willie’s mind as they dance. Songs from the distraction team, songs sung in celebration of life after yet another year passed behind wire. Songs about home, about love, and he wishes he’d find one that would fit with their rhythm. He starts whistling, probably off key, but Danny’s smile widens, and it’s all that matters. You don’t need me to teach you to dance. You never needed. Dancing is natural, when one is free. Singing is natural, whatever the language. No one has to know how to dance to spin on themself to celebrate life. That’s what they’re doing, celebrate, and Willie grabs Danny’s hand dramatically, and he wants to catch his waist too, but he doesn’t know if he remembers how to waltz. He was never good at it anyway, shamelessly making a fool of himself at seventeen in the village balls. But Willie trusts Danny not to make fun of him like the girls at the ball did, it’s in the way Danny looks at his hand, stops dancing for a second before tightening his grip on it and he’s the one to grab Willie’s waist. It’s everything he ever wanted._

  
  


Winter in Poland was cold. It was even colder with no more protection than the wooden planks that made the huts’ walls and their worn-out clothes. There was nothing to do but wait in winter. Sleep off the cold and try not to go wire-happy. Escape was impossible, the ground frozen and covered with snow. Nothing to do but wait. Waiting took different shapes, of course. Playing the same card games over and over again -and Willie found out he was not that bad at poker, which had its advantages- reading the same books, studying, watching the plays in the camp’s makeshift theatre. It sounded alright like that, but the air was so cold it took all the pleasure of reading or watching theatre away, and any activity was just a poor attempt at sweetening the wait. Sometimes he spent silent afternoons sharing cigarettes with Danny, wrapped in the same blanket, enjoying the warmth of their bodies and the taste of the tobacco until the stub burned his fingers. 

Another popular activity amongst the prisoners was telling stories from home. Wrapped in their thin blankets, seated on their bunk beds like baby birds on a perch, listening to tales of the green rolling hills of wherever the talker was from. Stories of summer girls and young children, stories of happier times everyone found a way to relate to. 

Danny almost never told stories. Willie did not know if he was put off by the language barrier or if he was not desperate enough to try to remember. Or if he was too desperate to allow himself to remember. He laughed when everyone else was laughing, he listened and, when it was Willie’s turn to tell a story, he listened more intensely, his eyes burning the back of Willie’s neck.

That afternoon, Willie was in the middle of telling ―for probably the tenth or twentieth time since he became a prisoner of war― the story of that time he had been stuck in a rowboat in the middle of a large pond for a few hours. He had been ten years old then, and positively terrified when the oars had fallen into the murky water. Now, telling the story and embellishing it just a tiny little bit, he found his childhood fear rather funny and cute. How had he managed to believe he would _die_ , forgotten by all, when the pond was in view of his house, and his parents and siblings would notice he was not in time for dinner?

When Willie finished telling the story -and when everyone had finished laughing- he fished a cigarette from his breast pocket and lit it, watching the smoke swirls floating away. He was feeling good. He took a drag from his cigarette before handing it to Danny.

“You teach me to dance, I teach you to sail.” 

“You know how to navigate Danny, why did you never tell me?” Willie asked, fake betrayal on his face but a real smile in his eyes.

“When I was little sometimes my uncle would take me on his rowboat on the Wisła,” Danny explained, his voice fond with nostalgia. “He taught me. I liked spending time on the boat, better than working.”

Just like he did not tell many stories, Danny had never told much about his childhood, about his life in Poland. Willie was okay with that, and confident Danny would tell him when he felt like it. They were not going anywhere. Besides, he had already patched up the few bits of knowledge he had into an image he kept safe in his heart. His younger Danny was made of a collage of dark hair, of Warsaw falling twice, and of coal. A collage of quietness and courage he had grown so fond of. 

“Deal,” Willie answered with a charming smile. “I’ll take you to the pond, there’s a little patch of sand and pebbles, and we can dance there. Then we’ll take the boat. We’ll have all the time, we’ll be free.” And we could lie there on the beach afterwards, Willie wanted to add, with no one to see us, and I could kiss you, and you could touch me, and we would have nothing to worry about anymore. It would be everything he had ever wanted. 

They finished the cigarette, the sun burning low outside, a reddish glow reflected by the snow outside the hut’s window. Willie could not wait for the winter to end, and for them to be free at last.   
  


_They try to waltz but neither of them knows the steps, and having music would have helped. Danny lets go of him for a second, and Willie misses it at once. He has come to realise how much he needs Danny by his side. What he means to him. He is not letting go. They have gone so far, achieved so much. It would take another war to separate them, and he should stop thinking about war, he should focus on Danny’s eyes, on his hips, on that smile that he loves so much. Willie wants to throw himself in Danny’s arms, he wants to cry and laugh at the same time. Too much emotion in his blood, rushing down to his feet, to his fingertips. They’ll never be locked up again, they’ll never be separated again._

Nothing ever went as planned, Willie thought as his arms hurt from rowing for hours. Danny was fast asleep, curled up in what little space they had in the rowboat. They both were exhausted, and had barely eaten that day. Well, he had to think positive, things could be worse. They had only met one patrol, and Danny had had no trouble deceiving them. Also, rowing and navigating was not as difficult as Willie had envisioned it. He was not as fast with the oars as Danny, but he did his best, and it was all that mattered. They were sailing northwards, steadily, day and night. Yes, things could be much worse. It had not started snowing yet.

Also, rowing gave Willie some time to think. Everything had happened so fast these last days. The mad rush to put the finishing touches on the tunnel, the tension so thick in the camp you could cut through it with a blunt blade. He wanted, no, he needed to think it over, to make sense of everything. 

Make sense of the tunnel being too short, of Danny almost giving in, breaking down, _ruining it,_ except no, Willie would not allow himself to think about it like that. They were outside, nothing had been ruined. How many had made it out? How many would make it to Switzerland, to Spain? 

Willie’s hands tightened on the oars, and he pushed the pain and exhaustion as far away in his mind as he could. They were going home, and they would make it. He would never allow anyone to imprison Danny again, to have him dig to freedom and madness, even if he had to row all the way down to the Dead Sea. They were going home. 

Danny woke up a few hours later as the sun started to set, and Willie tucked the oars away to get some scraps of food from his pack. Danny took his share, but did not let go of Willie’s hand. His hand, already calloused by the digging, now covered with blisters from rowing too much, joints made stiff and red from the cold. Danny’s hands were in no better state than his, but Willie welcomed the contact. It felt so safe, a lifeline that would pull him from under the water if he were to fall. Just like he had been Danny’s lifeline on that fateful night when he had given in to his fears. They were safe with each other, and Willie felt an overwhelming need to spill his heart out, tell Danny how important he was for him. How much he loved him. But no words were ever needed, as Danny let go of his hand and leaned forward, lightly touching Willie’s cheek with his knuckles. 

“Rest now.” 

Slowly, as countless nights gave way to ever-similar days, industrial landscape replaced the fields and trees with iron and concrete forests. There were more and more boats around them, and seagulls danced in circles and cried above their heads. 

Their little rowboat was invisible in the harbour, no one to care or ask any questions. They could have been any fishermen, and there was no one to care when they climbed on that large Swedish ship. It was over. They would be safe now.   
  


_Danny takes his hand once again, everything is perfect again, makes him spin on himself, and nothing in his movements is smooth, and they almost stumble, but keep their balance at the last second. Willie starts to laugh. From an onlooker perspective, they must be ridiculous. Two grown men in dirty clothes dancing awkwardly on the docks. But Willie doesn’t care. He is free. They are free. Danny’s laughing too, and it fills the space around them. The world and the war around them slowly disappear._

_It’s over._

_They’re free._

**Author's Note:**

> Whoa, this took way more time than anticipated! I hope you enjoyed (especially you my dear giftee), I don't write about these two a lot, and I was pretty worried whether or not the verb-tense present/past play would work out or not. Also I have a really angst-heavy long fic about them I want to write, so tell me if you'd want to see that. Of course, as always, comments and kudos are welcome <3
> 
> Besides, yes, I definitely was inspired by _that_ dance scene in Jojo Rabbit, and by the "What’s the first thing you’ll do when you’re free?" "Dance" lines between JoJo and Elsa.  
> Also, the title is a lyric to Jacques Brel's song "La Valse à Mille Temps", because I mean, danse and love, what else?  
> Speaking of references, I did put quite a far-fetched little one at one point, if anyone points it out I give you a cookie.
> 
> Also, everyone acknowledge my beta Mad_Amethyst, she is perfect and insisted to read this at 3AM so I'd publish something else than a rag full of typos.


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